


Hot Nights in November

by Allekha



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sex Pollen, Teacher-Student Relationship, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha
Summary: After a mishap with a trial of ISU's new drug-testing protocol makes him sick, Victor goes to Yakov for help.





	Hot Nights in November

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tripcyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripcyclone/gifts).



It was nice to start his season off with a short plane ride. Rostelecom in Moscow was only a short hop away from Saint Petersburg; in a few weeks, Victor would be in China, a much longer trip. With the lack of jet lag, he was eager to get through all the formalities of signing into the hotel and checking in for the competition so he could go do something more interesting.

After years of competing, he wouldn't have thought that there was anything that could possibly be new about the process, not even the occasional hiccups, but it turned out that ISU could still surprise him. "We're trialing a new drug testing procedure for some of our skaters," said a nurse, handing him a tiny teal pill and an empty plastic cup. "It's quick, cheap, and non-invasive. Just take that, wait five minutes, and spit in the cup a few times."

Victor glanced down at the items he held. "That's it?"

"Yep, and it's just as effective as the normal method. Nice, isn't it? Just make sure you fill the cup up to the line, and you're not allowed to drink anything until afterward."

Victor followed her instructions. The pill, tiny as it was, went down easily, and he sat around playing on his phone for a few minutes. Makkachin's dog-sitter had already sent him an update, complete with photos. She looked like she was having fun, running through the snow in the park. He wished he was there with her, throwing something for her to fetch, running his fingers through her soft fur. It would just be a few days, though.

He just had to wait a few days. Practice, short program, practice, free skate. Another gold medal for the collection; given his competition here, it wasn't really in question, barring a disaster. Probably another in China, unless Cao Bin somehow pulled off a miracle there. Probably another at the GPF, the fifth in a row, like everyone expected.

Once upon a time, Victor had felt excited at success. Lately, the promise of it felt more like an obligation. He hoped that would go away. Maybe if he just kept skating like he was supposed to, he would figure out what was going wrong. He'd tried something different with his programs this year, tried the thing Georgi was always going on about choreographing the feelings of his heart. He couldn't see the difference on the videos Yakov had taken, but hopefully the audience would like them, at least.

Georgi was here, too. Maybe he would earn silver. He had the ability to do it, and Yakov would be proud.

The five minutes were up. Victor spit into his cup until it was however many milliliters, then handed it over. A short while later, he was free.

It might have been nice to go out with someone, but he didn't really know anyone here this year except his rink mates. And Georgi would be going out with his girlfriend, and Mila didn't answer his text – possibly she'd already found some friends to eat out with. He could have found some other group – the Russian ice dancers who waved hello at him in the hotel lobby, the other men's skaters, he could have even bothered Yakov – but he ended up setting out on his own and found a nice little restaurant where he didn't feel too badly about eating by himself.

He scrolled through Instagram until he was bored. Checked when he had practice tomorrow. Replied to a text from Yakov checking in on him, and sent a photo of his food because it was pretty. Took the long way back to the hotel, afterward, wandering through a park for a few extra minutes.

Something felt off. There was an ache in his eyes, a heaviness in his limbs, like he was sleep-deprived. Odd. The flight here had been short, and he'd slept fine last night. Back at the hotel, he slipped under the covers with a book, hoping to fall asleep early.

But after half a chapter, the tiredness was gone. In its place was a restlessness that had him standing to pace the ugly carpet, up and down, up and down. It reminded him of the feeling of days off, when he was supposed to let his body rest, but it was so used to practice and exercise and long walks with Makkachin that he would drive himself crazy if he didn't go out for at least a short while. Maybe it was from sitting on the plane earlier?

He sat down and picked up the book. His body must have warmed up after his walk outside, since his legs felt too heated, so he shoved the blankets off and kept reading, even when his feet got so hot that he pulled his socks off with his toes. One foot still had a bit of a bruise from breaking in his skates, and he rubbed at it absently while he skimmed the next page.

His legs just wouldn't sit still. He had to put the book down again and pace some more. When that didn't help, he tried a few lunges and stretches, and that felt better, except that now that he was moving around again, the room felt too hot. Had the hotel turned the thermostat up? It wasn't _that_ cold outside for this time of year.

When he checked, though, it was set to twenty degrees. That shouldn't have made him so warm. Wondering if it was broken, he set it down a degree, and heard something click. Maybe not, then.

If it wasn't the room, then – it had to be him, didn't it?

Victor settled his head against the (smooth, cool) wall and let himself sigh about the prospect of getting sick now, of all times. He could skate on a fever – had skated on a fever, though Yakov hadn't been happy about it – but the idea wasn't making him look forward to competing any more. It was harder to put on his public face when he was sick and all he wanted to do was whine about it to someone, and mope around with his dog until his body started working right again.

Yakov would know what to do. Victor spent a couple of minutes hunting for his key card, and when he finally swiped it off the surface he had left it on, he almost stumbled into the wall with a sudden wave of vertigo. He paused to breathe in and out, deeply, and that helped the spinning a little. He didn't quite need to keep a hand on the wall as he stepped out of his room, but it was a near thing.

The carpet in the hallway was softer. Oh, he'd forgotten to put anything on his feet. Yakov was only a few doors down, though, so it was fine.

The moments between knocking on his door and the whir of the lock opening went on for too long. "What's wrong?" Yakov asked as he pulled the door open. He looked grumpy at being interrupted, but Victor knew that was just how his face was.

"I don't feel well."

The expression morphed into one of more obvious concern, and Yakov pulled him in. "Is it your stomach? Your head? Have you taken anything?" He put a hand to Victor's forehead, and before Victor could even say anything, asked, "Do you have a fever?"

"I think I might."

Yakov, thankfully, was always prepared. Victor had some basic medicine, of course – he should have taken something on his own, he realized as Yakov gestured for him to sit on the bed – but he didn't have the same fully-stocked first-aid kit. Yakov listened to him complain, fished out a thermometer and found that he did in fact have a fever, and offered him something for it. Victor swallowed the pills and felt better already.

And tired. Again. He might have preferred the restlessness.

Yakov pressed a hand to his forehead once more. The touch felt nice, more cooling than Yakov's warm skin should have been. Victor leaned into it. "Can I rest here for a bit?"

"Why not? It will save me the trouble of going over in an hour to see if your fever's coming down."

"Thanks," Victor mumbled. He fell a little when Yakov took his hand away; when had he closed his eyes? They didn't want to open.

"Come on, lay down. I want you to recover as much as possible before you skate."

"I can skate if I'm sick," Victor protested, although lying down did sound very nice. The covers on the bed were already rumpled, as though Yakov had taken a nap himself, and they didn't feel so hot as his had when he pulled himself underneath.

"You won't recover as well if you have to skate sick," Yakov chided. He helped Victor with the covers, then ran a hand over his hair to get it off his face. "Let me know if you start feeling worse."

"Mm." He turned his face into the pillow. It was better than the pillow in his room, somehow, although it took a moment to click. "It smells like you," he mumbled before he realized that it was a strange thing to say. But it was true. It was kind of comforting. Yakov had seen him through more illness and injury than anyone else.

The hand on his head paused for a moment. "Some of us old men like to have a lie-down after making sure all of our students are sorted out." A touch passed over his hair again, slower. Victor turned into it. "Get some sleep," Yakov said, an order, but a gentle one, and for once, Victor obeyed.

He woke feeling warm and cocooned – maybe a little too warm, but only a little. The bed was comfortable, and he must have had a good dream of someone, although he couldn't remember dreaming, because he was half-hard. He rocked his hips into the mattress once, twice, mind blank, and had started to reach a hand down to touch himself before he remembered where he was and that he wasn't alone.

Victor turned his head; Yakov, thankfully, was sitting at the room's desk with his back mostly turned, and probably hadn't noticed. Still sleepy, Victor watched him read off his laptop for a few minutes. Watched the movements of his arms above his head when he stretched, correcting his posture. Watched him reach for his phone and start to read something on that instead – for an old man he sure did adapt well to technology, and the thought was pleasing somehow.

And then Yakov's face changed to a deep scowl. The shift was so fast that Victor blinked a couple of times to make sure he was seeing things right, and a few moments later, Yakov turned around. Victor saw him start to take in a breath, like he was going to say something, before he stopped on seeing that Victor was already awake, and came over to sit on the very edge of the bed instead. "Were you one of the ones that got the new drug-testing procedure?"

Why would he be mad about that? "Yeah," Victor replied, lifting his head from the pillow. Now that he was properly awake, he had to fight not to squirm; somehow, even seeing Yakov getting into yelling mode wasn't telling his body to turn off. "It only took a minute."

Yakov shoved the phone in his face. Victor took it and skimmed the email on the screen. Blah blah deeply apologize blah blah drug testing blah blah contaminated with – oh.

 _Oh_. Well, that explained a few things. The fever, the restlessness, the hard-on his body was still trying very much to make him pay attention to.

He handed the phone back. "I'm going to see if anyone else got caught up in this," said Yakov, not looking at him, and then he shifted back to the desk, spitting various uncomplimentary things about ISU and its officials as he called Mila and Georgi.

Victor wasn't sure if he should go. The bed was still comfortable – although a little hotter now than before – and maybe Yakov would have a way to fix this, other than, well, the conventional solution. That sounded reasonable. So he stayed, covers pulled up over his mouth, watching Yakov's irritation ebb somewhat and his shoulders relax. Must have just been him, then.

"So only you got hit with it," Yakov confirmed, once he was off the phone. "I can't _believe_ they would be so irresponsible – judging scandals are one thing, but putting the health of athletes at risk is another thing entirely!" He set his phone down and glanced at Victor. "Why are you still here? You can go – take care of it yourself."

Victor shifted the covers off his mouth and frowned at him. "You mean go find someone to sleep with."

Yakov's eyes turned away again. "Yes."

"But I hardly know anyone here other than my rink mates." Both of whom were out of the question – Georgi was taken and Mila, much as he liked her, was very much not his type.

"Surely you can figure something out."

"And if I don't? How long does this stuff last?"

Another glance. "Depending on the dose, it can take days to work its way out of your system by itself. There's nothing else to do for it. Just find someone, Vitya."

Sleeping around had seemed like a fun idea for a short while when he was a teenager. Despite the rumors and reputation he had now, though, he preferred to stick to people he knew well. It was more enjoyable that way, and it felt better to him. The problem was that he didn't know a lot of people – competitors came and went, except for a few like Chris and Georgi. Others he would follow on social media, smile at, take photos with, invite along to group dinners – but he wasn't friends with them. Once he was off the podium, he tended to only really talk with his couple of real competitors, who weren't here, and his rink mates.

Victor mentally ran over what he could remember of the roster for this competition, and no, he didn't feel like sleeping with any of the ones he thought were single, even in this state. He hadn't shared so much as a real conversation with most of them.

"I can't think of anyone." A thought struck, seeing Yakov put a hand to his forehead in the dim light, a familiar gesture. He knew Yakov. He knew Yakov very well, in fact, and Yakov was nice, under his yelling and grumbling, so he would be kind to him. He would be gentle, if— "I guess there's you," he said, not thinking about what he was saying at all. Yakov was old and not that handsome and Victor had never wanted anything like this from him before, but he would be good to him, and that was the important part, wasn't it? And the bed smelled like him, and Victor liked it. He could feel the blood in his cheeks at the thought of Yakov—

Yakov brought his other hand up so he could rub his face with both of them. "Don't joke about that," he said.

"Then...." He ran through the mental list again and came up blank. He stared at Yakov, hoping for a suggestion.

All he got was a glance. "What?"

"I don't want it to be with a stranger."

"Your competitors are hardly strangers, Vitya." Victor opened his mouth again, but Yakov snapped, "Get out of here and find _someone,_ I don't care who it is. You're being ridiculous. You have a health issue and you need to take care of it."

Victor hardly thought it was ridiculous to have standards about who he slept with, even with the stupid chemicals making his skin hot. He wanted someone to touch him, so badly it itched under his skin; it just had to be the right kind of someone. "What," he snapped back, sitting up, "should I set up a Tinder profile and hope for someone decent? 'Three-time Olympic medalist looking for handsome stranger to fuck the sex chemicals out of him thanks to ISU screw-up'?"

Yakov let out a long sigh. "It's not my business what you do for it," he said.

"Fine." He push the covers away. The heat was creeping up his spine in little waves, and he could feel the flush in his cheeks, like pinpricks just under the skin. "I'll go sit it out in my room." It sounded unpleasant, but he'd been sick before. He could see if there was any medicine that would help.

Where was his keycard? It took too many seconds for his brain to recognize it on the bedside table, and it took four attempts to pick it up because his hands were trembling. Sitting up felt a lot worse than laying down had. His head was fuzzier, and while the room wasn't quite spinning, it seemed like it was about to start to do so.

He fumbled the keycard. Yakov reached for it before he could, then stared at it for a long moment after he had picked it up. "I don't want you to suffer," he said, quiet. "Surely there's something you would be willing to—"

"You already said no. I wasn't joking."

Something flickered over Yakov's face. "I'm your _coach_."

"So?" That hardly seemed like a reasonable objection to him right now.

"So – _Vitya_." He hadn't heard that exasperated tone in a while. Must not have been doing enough to earn it lately. Maybe if he added another quad to one of his programs, or switched his choreography to backload more. Something. He kind of missed it. "You know that would be unprofessional and unethical!"

Victor zoned out of the lecture. He didn't have it in him to concentrate on it right now.

He did usually manage to get his way with Yakov, though. There were ways. Victor broke out the best of them and stumbled to his feet, then bent down to wrap his arms around Yakov's shoulders. Yakov was still sitting, so the angle was awkward, but it made the lecture pause. "Please."

Yakov tried to push him away, but too gently. Victor didn't budge. "There has to be someone," he said. Victor shook his head. "We can't. You know that. It's not an option."

It would be fine if it was Yakov. It wasn't like – Yakov had always looked out for him. Kept an eye on his health and tried to make sure he was safe, even when Victor hadn't appreciated his efforts when he was younger. "I know you'd be good to me. You always are, even when I don't give you proper appreciation for it. Please."

There was a long, quiet moment. Even this much contact, even with Yakov's shirt in the way, was better than nothing; Victor found himself turning his cheek to rub it against Yakov's head. He was warm, but it didn't make Victor feel more hot, just – it helped the itching, the urge to strip down and entwine himself with someone as deeply as possible.

"Are you absolutely sure you wouldn't rather find someone else?"

"I don't want to lay around like this for the next three days." He bent down a little further, seeking more touch. "I want it to be someone I know." His knees felt weak, so he dropped to the floor and set his head against the side of Yakov's leg instead, looked up at him. He probably made for a pathetic picture, but Yakov was weak to that, too, anyway.

"Get up," Yakov sighed, and he stood, bringing Victor with him. His vision wavered but didn't start spinning yet. Yakov cursed softly under his breath and rubbed his face again, his hands lingering over his eyes. Victor leaned against him, and wasn't pushed away. He waited, feeling his heart beat too hard in his chest, trying to focus.

"Please," he mumbled.

Another long few moments, and then Yakov let his hands fall from his face. "If it's between this and you suffering for days because you aren't willing to sleep with anyone other than an old man who is your _coach_ , then fine."

It took too long to process what that meant. Victor jerked his head up. "You will?"

"Don't expect me to act like a romantic lover," Yakov said. His shoulders were tense, and he was looking to the side. "It's just to get you off a few times to get it out of your system. And you have to tell me immediately if you want to stop. I can take you back to your room if you change your mind."

"Okay," said Victor. He wasn't going to change his mind, but it seemed to make Yakov feel better to agree. He leaned in to kiss him, but Yakov stopped him with a look that suggested kisses were not happening tonight.

"Stop clinging to me already and lie down."

Victor pouted – he liked kissing – but he did as Yakov asked, kicking aside the disturbed sheets. It was too hot. Behind him, Yakov clicked the lamp off, bringing the room into darkness, and while Victor waited for Yakov to join him, he shed his shirt and tossed it somewhere. That was a little better. The mattress dipped, and then, slowly, Yakov came to lay behind him.

It was Victor who had to shuffle so they were pushed closer together. He didn't want to scare Yakov off and make him change his mind, but just having him next to him wasn't enough. How had he been able to stand sitting by himself a minute ago? He reached out blindly and pulled one of Yakov's arms around him, wriggled until they were touching, and oh, that was better. It calmed his heartbeat, easing some of the tension in his muscles that he had hardly noticed, although the heat in his stomach remained.

For a minute, he was content enough with that much contact. But the stuff in him wasn't going away just from this, and he could almost feel it getting worse, his thoughts turning to fuzzy urges for touch. He managed to fight down the impulse to squirm and start demanding more, but he needed—

Yakov sighed soundlessly against his neck, and reached his other arm over Victor, too. He went still and waited, his body trying to twitch into every touch as Yakov moved his hand over his stomach.  Yakov breathed out again, slowly, and Victor wondered if he was still trying to talk himself into this, before the hand shifted down and touched him, almost too softly to feel, over his sweatpants.

It drove sparks up his spine. Victor instinctively muffled the sounds he made in the pillow, not sure how loud they could be in this hotel room. As Yakov touched him more firmly, he had to close his eyes – yes, yes, this was what he'd been craving, this was what his body _needed_ right now, and he rocked his hips up for more. Little noises escaped his throat; he couldn't contain them as Yakov started to stroke him through the fabric.

Another wave of heat, dizzying, washed over him. More. The touch was good – amazing – but he needed more of it, anything he could get. "Please," he found himself saying. "Please, I—" Words were too hard. He scrabbled at his waistband instead.

Yakov helped him finish stripping, and he kicked away the rest of his clothes. When he hooked one leg around Yakov's, he could feel the heat of his skin through his clothes, the shape of the muscle under the fabric, and that only made him want more contact.

Then Yakov returned to touching him, and the noise wrenched from him was almost painful. For a moment he couldn't think of anything else. Just pure pleasure and heat and relief all at once. "Please," he mumbled, although he couldn't imagine what else Yakov could give him.

But Yakov did keep giving: he stroked him, slowly and a little stiff at first, before he turned his wrist and gripped harder. Victor grabbed the arm still around his waist with one hand, the pillow with his other, and for a moment his thoughts fell away entirely. His hips weren't rolling in any real pattern, but Yakov kept up with him, his wonderful soothing touch sending spikes of pleasure up his stomach every second.

It should have been enough, and for a moment, it was. Then Victor took a deep breath, trying to get enough air, and suddenly it wasn't. He wanted – he didn't know what he wanted. More. What more? Anything more. "Please."

"Please what?" Yakov said against his ear, and that was good, too, making him shiver. He wanted Yakov to take it in his mouth. He wanted Yakov to press kisses down his neck, to – skin, that would be a good start. He pulled at the sleeve on the arm wrapped around him, trying to form the words. What were these called, again? What was it he wanted Yakov to do?

"Please?"

"Use words, Vitya. I can't understand you."

"Can you – can you take it off, please, I need to touch you. Please, please."

"All right," and oh, right, that meant that Yakov had to let go of his cock, let go of _him_ , to sit up and unbutton his shirt. Victor tried to wait, but after only a couple of seconds he was trying to touch himself in Yakov's stead. It didn't feel as good as it should have, barely felt good at all. Wow, this was frustrating, trying to get any reaction out of himself like this – good thing he'd managed to get Yakov to agree to this. He couldn't imagine feeling like this for days, with the heat choking him and the desire pushing on his skin, nerves feeling half-dead when he tried to take care of the problem himself.

When Yakov lay down again and went back to holding him, Victor melted. He was so warm! And it wasn't unpleasant at all, even with the heat coursing through him. It somehow made him feel less overheated, especially when Yakov started to stroke him again. "Mm."

"Is that better?"

"Yes." He turned his head, thinking – wait, Yakov didn't want to kiss. Damn it. He tipped his head back into the pillow.

For a minute or few, Victor was able to close his eyes and lose himself in the sensations – Yakov's breath on his neck, the firm arm on his waist, the hand touching him, firmer and faster now, the heat building ever-hotter in his stomach. But there was something in him that wasn't _quite_ satisfied with even all of that, though Victor tried to push the extra wanting away. He made his curled toes relax, made his arms lie more softly on the covers, leaned further back into Yakov. Tried to let himself be in the moment.

Victor had a lot of practice at making his mind go blank. He was good at it, too – even as a kid, he'd never gotten nervous at competitions, because when it was his turn to skate, he approached the center ice with nothing but the feeling of the ice under his blades and an awareness of where his body was going. No last-minute mental run-throughs of his program, no letting worries get in the way. By the time the music started, he was almost always calm and ready to skate like he did in practice, or better.

So it was strange that he couldn't do that now, couldn't make the insistence on _more more more_ go away no matter how he tried to fight it down. It was so annoyingly non-specific, too. There were a lot of things Victor might have wanted – wanted Yakov to kiss him, or put his mouth to that ear, or to his neck, or put hands on his face, fingers in his mouth. Trace his collarbones or the muscles of his chest, hands gripping his waist, skimming carefully over the bruise from a nasty fall two weeks ago on his hip, gentle fingers on his thighs, a solid weight over him. He wanted Yakov in him or around him or both at once, anything would be good.

"Please," Victor found himself saying.

"Please _what_?"

"I don't _know_ ," said Victor, squirming, because it seemed like it might help. (It didn't.) "I just – the chemicals, maybe, I – please touch me or, or talk to me, I – please, Yakov, please, please, I need more."

"I'm already touching you."

Yes, he was, and very well, there was nothing wrong with it, Victor just wanted – why couldn't Yakov have more hands to touch him with? Victor could only reply with more pleas, trying to figure out how to give them more direction himself. He brought one hand up to his chest, but like before, it didn't work right – it was about as sexy as petting his own elbow. Feeling even more frustrated, he threw his hand back down. "Can you – please—"

"Stop begging," Yakov said. "I can't tell what you mean by it."

That made two of them. Victor had never been good at shutting up because he was told to, though, and the words slipped out again when Yakov twisted his hand _just right_ on the next stroke and put bright spots behind his eyes.

The arm around him shifted, and a moment later there was a hand over his mouth. "I said to stop begging. You probably have a lot going through your mind right now, and I know the chemicals are making it difficult, but you need to take a moment to breathe and regain your focus. Letting yourself get driven into a state because—" And so on and so forth.

They were probably good words – and Victor did feel more focused already, quieter, but it wasn't from the strangest lecture he'd ever heard in bed. It was because of Yakov's hand, soft over his mouth, not pressing hard. Victor could have shoved it away with the least effort, or just moved his head.

He did neither. Instead, he opened his mouth and sucked two of Yakov's fingers in. They were a little salty with sweat, and he could feel the texture of the rough skin on his tongue, and Victor's brain stopped clamoring for _more_ when he started sucking on them.

Yakov's words ground to a halt. So did his other hand, at least until Victor rocked his hips into his grip and whined at him. Yakov didn't say anything. Victor might have thought that he was letting him do as he wanted, but Yakov's breath was speeding up, and oh. Maybe Yakov was getting off, too?

That would be nice. It seemed unfair if only Victor got anything out of this, and he already made Yakov suffer enough, didn't he? Maybe afterward, Yakov would let him touch him like this, or suck him off, or would want to fuck him, anything sounded good right now. More contact would be amazing, and now that he was thinking about it, he wanted to see Yakov enjoying himself, his body relaxing into Victor's touch.

Victor could feel that he was getting close. Too much heat, still, but a good heat now. When he opened his mouth to moan, Yakov pulled his fingers away and wiped them off on the pillowcase, a sight that made Victor chuckle.

Yakov's hand had found the perfect pace, and Victor closed his eyes to let himself enjoy it. This time, wrapped up in a cocoon of Yakov's warmth and touch, he was able to float along thoughtlessly, each stroke sending him a little closer to the edge.

There was something on his neck. Soft, a little wet. Ah, Yakov was – not kissing him, just pressing his lips to the base of Victor's neck without moving. It made Victor shiver, the tender little touch, and then Yakov's hand tightened, and _there._

The orgasm left Victor boneless, twitching with tiny aftershocks but otherwise quite content to wallow in the leftover pleasure rather than moving. He barely noticed when Yakov moved away and turned the lamp back on. Yakov would be back and maybe Victor could convince him to cuddle before—

The wave of heat and want slammed back into him, so sudden that it almost made him choke. He coughed. That didn't help. He could hardly breathe for a few seconds, before it faded enough to take in a gasp.

"Vitya? What's wrong?"

Victor shook his head and scrambled to sit up. The room tumbled around him. He instantly felt nauseous. "Can I have some water?"

Yakov brought him water. It helped, a little. He had to hold the glass for him, because Victor was shaking too much. "Careful," said Yakov when he started to list to the side. He was too dizzy to correct it, and Yakov caught him so he could finish the water.

"It went away for a minute there," Victor said. "And then it came back very hard." He couldn't think straight with all the spinning. He closed his eyes. The last time he'd felt this dizzy was when he'd had surgery in his early twenties for an injury, coming off the anesthetic; he felt like he was a small child again, learning how to spin, needing someone to hold him when he fell and hurt himself. Not that he wanted Yakov to let go.

"Do you need to take a break?"

" _No_. That would make it worse." Victor flopped back to the bed and pulled Yakov with him. That was good. That helped more than the water. Laying down again and having Yakov there. Something happened to Yakov's expression, though Victor couldn't decide what. "Is your wrist okay?"

"It's fine." Yakov shifted slightly further away; Victor reeled him back in until he was almost laying on top of him. There was a hardness near his hip. So he'd been right. When Victor reached for it, though, Yakov brushed his hand away. "It's just a natural reaction. Ignore it. We're doing this to help you."

"I don't mind." When Yakov gave him a look, he frowned. "What? I know I'm attractive, it's not an insult. You don't have to put up with it until we get this stuff out of my system. It'll work the same if both of us get off."

"Don't make this even more inappropriate than it is already," Yakov sighed. Victor opened his mouth to object again, but Yakov cut him off. "Let me take care of you." He said it gruffly, matter-of-fact, but the words made Victor's heart flutter for a second all the same.

He knew Yakov cared, but it was nice to have the reminders of it after the yelling and criticisms and Yakov pulling at his arms to correct them for the fifth time in a day. Nice to know that Yakov would always be there to deal with airlines and doctors and, apparently, drug testing contamination mishaps. Victor pulled Yakov closer in a hug and said, "Okay," softly. Yakov gave him a suspicious look, but didn't question it.

Victor was hard again already when Yakov reached down to wrap a hand around his cock. The touch made his back arch, and wow, it was soothing to have Yakov on top of him, all the skin contact. It left him thinking a little more clearly, although he was quite happy to abandon thought in favor of closing his eyes and focusing on Yakov's grip.

Like before, though, it wasn't long before he started wanting something else, too. Mostly he wanted Yakov to kiss him, but it didn't seem like the right moment to push, not yet. Maybe in a couple of minutes. Or to run a hand down – damn, if Yakov was propping himself up on one arm, that made things more difficult, didn't it?

Victor squirmed, first knocking his legs into Yakov's, then opening his knees to put them on either side of his waist. That was a little better, but not nearly enough.

Maybe if _more_ would be difficult, he could at least have _different_? Maybe that would help the buzzing under his skin, if not the heat that he could feel going to his head again.

He reached down and wrapped his hand over Yakov's. For a moment that was – oh, that was nice, it was better than when he'd tried touching himself – but he pulled Yakov's hand off, ignoring the look he received. Pulled their hands down, deliberately brushing against Yakov's hardness with the back of his wrist and making him jump, until Yakov's hand was in-between his legs.

Yakov was frowning at him. Victor stared back and let go of his hand. "Please," he said, trying to make it sweet.

"What did I say about begging five minutes ago?" Yakov grumbled. His fingers drifted to Victor's thigh, and his expression changed to an uncomfortable one. "Are you sure you want me to?"

"Yes, I want you to finger me," Victor said, a little huffy. He'd thought that was pretty clear. Or maybe it was another hang-up of Yakov's, like it mattered if he got off or what they did once they were already in bed together. Touching him outside, inside, what did it matter? "Anyway, I think I heard somewhere that this stuff wears off faster with penetration."

Yakov snorted. "And I'm sure that whoever wrote that was a doctor. They could have easily said that kissing or keeping the lights on or bondage would make it wear off faster, whatever they wanted someone to do."

But he did start to press two fingers into Victor, slower than he had to. Victor wasn't that tense, and his fingers might have been a little slippery with sweat or precome; Victor found himself canting his hips down, trying to make him hurry up. He didn't need to be so careful. And it wasn't better, exactly, but it sure was different when Yakov angled his fingers right and sent a hard shudder up his spine, and it helped the jitters.

Yakov watched him carefully as he trembled with pleasure again. Watching Victor's reaction or watching to make sure he was doing it right and not hurting him – Victor didn't know which option he preferred. Maybe both. Not everyone would have been so cautious with him. Maybe that would have been fun, too, but it was nice to be treated gently sometimes. He pushed his hair back with the heel of one hand and sent Yakov a smile. There might have been tiniest twitch of something like an answering smile on Yakov's face.

This was good – more than good, this whole thing had been great so far – but it still wasn't doing anything for Yakov, and Victor wondered if he could get Yakov to agree to _something_ after this. Or more immediately—

"You should fuck me," he said.

Yakov frowned at him. "Do you ever listen to a single word I say?"

"Only when you say good things."

"For the last time, Vitya, no. If you want me to—"

"What I _want_ is to see you get to have a good time, too." Yakov's frown deepened. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you!"

"What?"

It was Victor's turn to give him a look. "You're going to be touching me for maybe hours until we get this out of my system, and even if your body gets turned on, you have to put up with it? That's so unfair. Even if you call me selfish, I'm not _that_ selfish. I'd rather watch you enjoy yourself."

Yakov looked at him for a long moment, then put his forehead down and let out a breath. "Stay here, don't panic," he said. And then he pulled away.

Confused, Victor watched him move to the other side of the room, before he had to close his eyes and turn his face into the overly-fluffy hotel pillow, seeking some kind of stimulation on his skin. The pillowcase and the sheets didn't cut it. Without Yakov, the bed was too cold, and Victor's skin was too hot.

At least Yakov was only gone for a moment. He returned to where he'd been, though when he pushed his fingers back into Victor, they were definitely slick with something. "I wanted to make sure I don't hurt you," and it wasn't like it was a reasonable worry, but Victor didn't care enough to answer for a long moment. Yakov's weight back over him, the fingers in him, were enough to calm the restlessness that had started up again. Victor made an encouraging noise and hiked his knees higher, shifted his hips further down. There, that was good, oh – the moan he made this time just slipped out.

"More," he said, and that slipped out, too. He ran his hands up Yakov's back, expecting him to pull his hand away, or to push Victor's legs open further, or – something.

But Yakov sat back and shook his head. "I'm not going to fuck you, Vitya."

Victor blinked up at him. "Why not?" He thought he'd had him. Yakov was really committed to this ethics thing, wasn't he. Annoyingly so. Why did he have to be such a good coach the one night that Victor wanted him not to be?

"For one thing," Yakov said, and then he paused to clear his throat and glance away. So maybe he was feeling awkward about this, despite the way he'd seemed to calm down about it? "We don't have any condoms."

Victor blinked a couple more times, then burst into laughter. Yakov! Not having any – Victor could still remember the time Yakov had dragged him to his office, thirteen or fourteen, before his first competition of the season, to lecture him about _safety_. Victor had tried not to squirm or let his embarrassment show, expecting to be bored by a repetition of the lecture from school. But Yakov, thank goodness, had soon moved on to the other rules he would reinforce for years at banquets and other meetings, _don't accept drinks from a stranger that you haven't seen poured with your own eyes_ and _if your instincts are warning you, listen to them – I know you can sweet-talk yourself away from anyone, use that ability if you have to_. And, a couple days later, a pack of condoms had quietly shown up at the bottom of one of his bags.

Yakov was looking at him like he was crazy. That was a familiar expression.

"Do we really need them?" Victor asked. (Did he have any? He might have. But two doors down was two doors too many right now.) Trying to forestall another lecture, he grabbed Yakov's free hand, now that he was resting more weight on his knees. He brought it up to his chest, pushed down, smiled. Yakov was frowning, but almost reluctantly, he brushed his thumb over one nipple. Victor shuddered and breathed out, shivered harder when Yakov did it again, less lightly. He fluttered his eyelashes for show. "Don't you want to?" Didn't he see what he was doing to him?

Yakov's expression said he did. The way his fingers twitched inside Victor, the way his hand moved on Victor's skin, said he did. He just didn't want to say so. That was okay. He didn't have to say anything, Victor just had to get him to.

He arched into Yakov's touch. He grabbed for his shoulders. He let the way his face was flushed all the way down his neck, hotter than the rest of him, the way his body instinctively moved into each touch, speak for themselves. (Yakov had been annoyed by the begging, so he didn't beg, though he wanted to. God, if only Yakov would kiss him already.)

It was so hard to be patient – to wait for even a few seconds – as Yakov touched him. Touched him, and then closed his eyes and let his head drop. "You're impossible, Vitya," he murmured.

"Maybe this stuff catches," Victor joked, heart fluttering with anticipation, because Yakov had to mean – and yes, he was pulling his fingers out of him and twining them in the sheets instead, reaching for his own trousers.

Yakov didn't say anything. He still had a vaguely troubled look on his face, but he moved anyway, shifting his weight forward again and then pausing to look at him. Victor tightened his arms around him and waited each agonizing second, heartbeat pounding in his ears. _More_ , demanded part of him, now that Yakov had stopped touching for even this long. He wasn't going to start asking Victor if he was really truly absolutely entirely sure, was he, because he was. _More, more_ , he needed—

It didn't go away all at once, when Yakov started to ease into him, taking his time, or probably being cautious. But the wanting abated as Yakov pushed further in, filling him, as the hand on his hip slid over the skin, as Yakov leaned further into him. Victor wrapped his legs around him, as far up on his waist as he thought he could manage at the moment, to encourage him.

He'd never seen Yakov like this before. His eyes pinching shut as everything but the want dropped from his face, his mouth opening the slightest bit. The _groan_ he made, not the exasperated one of a coach facing down troublesome students at all. His chest moving rapidly, not quite panting but breathing hard. It was... Victor hadn't known he could be like this. Hadn't realized what Yakov could do to him, his stomach twisting with want that he didn't think entirely came from the sex chemicals. When Yakov opened his eyes and looked at him, his eyes dark and totally focused on him, it felt like it made him blush.

It didn't, because his face was already so hot it would probably stay that way until he got back on the ice. He smiled up at Yakov and pulled him down a little further, wanting to close any remaining distance between them.

"Does it feel alright?"

"Stop worrying," said Victor. "It feels great." He tried a bigger smile, too.

Either way, Yakov was apparently convinced, because he pulled out most of the way, slowly, and slid back in, careful. As annoying as Yakov's worrying could be, sometimes, at least Victor knew that Yakov would never treat him badly. Yakov had never forced him to skate injured – forced him not to skate injured, if anything – or snatched chocolates out of his hand like he'd seen happen to another skater when he was young, wouldn't be doing _this_ now if Victor hadn't pleaded his way into it.

The stupid chemicals, for once, were happy with the pace, with the way that each movement of their bodies sent pleasure up his spine, into his cock. Victor himself, though, wanted Yakov to move faster, harder. He didn't need Yakov to treat him with so much care.

He was starting to open his mouth to ask for it – Yakov had given him so much already, why not this? He shut it when Yakov shivered and set a hand on his cheek, still fucking him slowly and steadily. The hand stayed for a moment, warm on Victor's overheated skin, a thumb stroking along his cheekbone. Then it pushed back through his hair, ruffling the strands.

Victor liked it. When the hand returned to his face, he turned his head, and Yakov did it again before nudging his head straight again. Yakov murmured his name. The thumb was pressing on his cheekbone. When the pressure lessened, Victor was afraid for a moment that it would go away – he freed one hand to place it over Yakov's, to make sure it would stay there.

Was it his imagination, or the sweat in his eyes, or was that fondness in Yakov's gaze? Victor turned his head once more, this time to kiss Yakov's palm. The skin there was dry, but it still felt good to kiss it. But then Yakov's hand was moving away, down his neck, then back under his chin, tipping it up.

And then Yakov finally, _finally_ kissed him.

It took a moment for Victor to realize it was actually happening, and then he gasped with surprise. His hands flew to Yakov's neck, what was left of his hair. Yakov wasn't moving away, though, was taking everything Victor gave him. Hot lips pressing into his, and then a tongue, too, even hotter, and Victor couldn't get enough, couldn't. He curved his back up, tried to hitch his legs up further even as Yakov kept moving in and out of him, and didn't let Yakov break the kiss.

The pressing want in the back of his head finally shut up all the way. Victor had everything he needed, now, had Yakov's touch everywhere now that Yakov was in him and Victor was wrapped around him.

He kept holding on every time Yakov seemed like he might shift away, pressed his tongue back into Yakov's mouth or changed the angle of his own. Eventually, though, Yakov gently pulled one of Victor's hands away and managed to escape. "I need to breathe," he chided. "So do you."

Victor hadn't noticed. He only let Yakov get as far away as he needed to and tried to gain control back over his breath. It seemed like it should have been easy, but every few seconds Yakov would thrust into him, bringing more of the good heat into his stomach, or touch his jaw, and his breath would be taken away again.

"It's not often you get to surprise me so well," he laughed.

Yakov huffed something like a laugh and kissed him again. And again, and again, until Victor was full up on them, letting out a happy sigh when they needed another break to breathe.

He was getting close again. He tried to worm a hand between them, even knowing that it would be futile to touch himself for now. Yakov caught on to what he was doing and caught the hand to press it back to the pillow; Victor didn't let go, and instead twined their fingers together. "Let me," whispered Yakov.

And he did, murmuring Victor's name, so soft and fond that it was a pleasure in and of itself to hear it, murmuring various assurances to him when Victor couldn't lay still. It made his chest hurt a little to hear them, or maybe it was the way his heart was pounding so hard, even harder once Yakov wrapped his hand around his cock.

It felt like no time at all before Yakov's touch pushed him over the edge, shaking and gasping. He was able to drift in hazy bliss for a few long, lovely moments, before everything flooded back in and ruined it. The _heat._ At least it wasn't quite so bad this time around, not choking, and the ceiling only spun a little. Though he must have made a face, because Yakov asked if he was alright.

"It's fine," he said. It was already fading, with how close Yakov was. He put on a smile, though it felt crooked, and tugged Yakov in for another kiss.

Yakov was moving in and out of him faster now. Victor kissed his cheeks, lingering; Yakov may not have been as handsome nowadays as he was in the photographs from his own heyday as a skater, but his skin was warm and he smelled good, and he seemed to like the long touches.

Victor wondered if there was anything else he could do for him. Yakov had been taking such good care of him, after all, it only seemed right to make this as good as possible for him, too. But Yakov seemed content enough with their kisses, with fucking him, with Victor holding him.

Fingers started to dig hard into his hip, hard enough that Victor wondered if it would bruise for a moment before Yakov suddenly let go and grabbed, more gently, for his waist instead. He was saying Victor's name again, but instead of kisses, he tucked his head down and – oh. Victor put a hand on the back of his head and held on to him as Yakov trembled, his thrusts going erratic, and went still.

Ordinarily, Victor would have liked the quiet afterward. Simply holding on to him, enjoying the aftermath, ready to cuddle and go to sleep. This time, however, he had to struggle to wait patiently for Yakov to lift his head and pull out of him, his body already demanding more. The chemicals were trying to take all the fun out of this.

"Alright," groaned Yakov as he rolled off of Victor and onto his side. Victor pressed back up against him, and Yakov put an arm around him. "Let's finish taking care of you. It's late enough."

Was it? Victor had completely lost track of time. Yakov wasted none in starting to stroke him again, and letting Victor kiss him some more.

This was better than the first time, the buzz of the chemicals quieter, and with Yakov less awkward. And the kisses. Victor nuzzled his head along Yakov's jaw and let himself stop thinking, and this time it worked. There was Yakov's presence, close and calming, and Yakov's hand, moving at just the right pace. He let whatever noises his throat made slip out.

It was a bit of a shock when the arm around him moved away. "What?" he asked, scooting up, looking to replace the lost skin contact.

"My hand was going numb." Yakov shook it with a wince. "You're too heavy to do that for long."

"Not heavy," Victor groused. Yakov rolled his eyes, but turned over a little more so Victor could snuggle into him better. Between that and whatever it was that he did with his wrist to make Victor gasp and jerk against him, Victor forgave him.

When the orgasm rolled over him this time, it was weaker and shorter. It also left him tired, afterward, finally. Victor closed his eyes and waited for the heat to come back, but he kept waiting and waiting, and there was only a little bit, some twitchiness in his legs. He swallowed. It made what was there almost go away.

"Is it over?" Yakov asked.

"I think so." It still felt like he could go again, but it was more of a suggestion that another round might be nice, rather than a demand for more, more, more. He could probably sleep like this.

After a few more minutes, where Victor didn't move at all, Yakov nudged him and reached over to turn the light off. "Are you staying?"

"Yes?" Where else would he go? Back to his room? His room didn't have Yakov in it. He put his head on Yakov's chest and was quite prepared to fall asleep like that.

Only maybe there was still a bit of restlessness in him, or maybe it was the way that the drying sweat and come on his skin got uncomfortable enough to notice after a few minutes. Yakov, breathing deeply, sounded like he was already asleep by the time Victor gave up on sleep for the moment, sat up, and tried not to disturb Yakov as he slid off the bed to take a shower.

Victor cranked up the heat on the shower like he usually did, but five seconds under the spray had him turning the temperature down; hot water plus the residual heat from the chemicals left him so warm he could feel his heart rate picking up again from how the thumping echoed uncomfortably in his chest. Lukewarm was better, and slightly cool better still, taking the edge off whatever remained in his system.

He took his time washing off and then toweling dry, squinting in the bright light, not really thinking of anything. Too sleepy. It was a relief to slip back into the bed, under the covers, in Yakov's dark room.

A moment after he'd settled back against Yakov, Yakov shifted. Oh, so he was awake. Maybe Victor had woken him up. "Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his head against Yakov's shoulder. Well, if he was awake anyway, Victor might as well get more comfortable – he pulled Yakov's arm around him, heavy and comforting. There. Perfect. "Good night."

"Good night," said Yakov, his voice quiet. Victor gave one last sigh, and fell right asleep.

Victor didn't dream, or at least he didn't remember any dreams when Yakov shook him awake the next morning. Yakov was already fully dressed, and there was coffee somewhere in the room, he could smell it. It was tempting, but so was Yakov, sitting so close to him, and Victor reached for him. He might have been fine now, but it was nice to not wake up alone today, and they'd hardly cuddled at all last night before they'd fallen asleep.

Yakov shifted away before Victor could pull him down. "You need to get up," he said. "Come on, you need to have breakfast before you go to practice."

"They didn't change it?"

"What?"

"Because of the whole – accidentally giving us sex chemicals thing."

"Apparently not. Judging by the emails I woke up to, every idiot official who could possibly be involved in this mess has been bombarded all night by angry coaches and parents. As they should be – this is a heap of lawsuits waiting to happen. None of them have better have gotten any sleep. I think hospitals were mentioned in one of the email chains, so maybe they found a medical solution." He glanced away.

Fine. If Yakov wouldn't come to him, Victor could move. He sat up and leaned over to hug Yakov before he could move further away or get off the edge of the bed. "Mm. I liked ours."

Yakov cleared his throat. "Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine now." If anything, he felt happier than usual. He leaned back enough to smile at Yakov. "You took good care of me last night."

Yakov, nodded, stiff; something in his face twitched. Victor didn't know what to do with the awkward silence, so he leaned in for a good-morning kiss. But just like he had last night, Yakov stopped him.

"Vitya. Don't."

"Why not?"

"You know why. You're not an idiot."

Yes, yes, teacher, student, Yakov was too old for him, whatever. "I don't care." He wanted Yakov to touch him again like he had last night, full of affection.

"Of course you don't." The lines of Yakov's face deepened. "Can't you be responsible for _once_ in your life? Come on, you need to get dressed."

Victor could have gotten up and gotten dressed and put on a smile and pretended it was fine for Yakov's sake, pretended this had never really happened. Just like he was going to put on a smile for the reporters, for the crowd, for himself trying to be happy about that probably gold medal like he should be.

But he didn't want to. Last night Yakov had been – he'd looked at Victor with desire in his eyes. Said all of those things. He'd meant all of them – Yakov didn't lie, and Victor had worked hard to draw as much out of him as he had. To have him trying to pull away now, in the light of day, hurt. Surely he'd felt _something_.

"You wanted me last night."

Yakov flinched and turned away. "What we did last night was only to help you." When Victor didn't say anything – his throat was closing up, and he didn't know what words Yakov wanted to hear that he wanted to say – he continued. "If you want more than that, you can find someone your own age. You're surrounded by handsome young competitors, not all of them can be taken." When he looked back at Victor, his frown somehow got even worse. "Why do you look so upset?"

"Didn't it _mean_ anything to you?" Victor blurted. His face was hot, and his eyes were starting to hurt. No, he wasn't going to cry. Stupid. "You were so nice to me, and you – and it felt so good, and now you want me to move on just like that?"

Yakov looked at him for a long moment, then rubbed his face. "I'm trying to be reasonable enough for both of us," he snapped. "Why do you – oh, for hell's sake." And he leaned forward, put a hand on Victor's jaw, and kissed him.

Confused and pleased at the same time, Victor clung to him, not wanting him to leave. It was a shallow kiss, chaste, but it was good anyway, far better than Yakov trying to make him go away.

"Is that enough of an answer for you?" Yakov asked after he pulled away.

Before last night, it had been – a long time since Victor had enjoyed anyone's touch so much as that. And maybe it had just been the chemicals or something, but it had been so good. He could still remember how his body had kept turning into Yakov's, how glad he'd been to finally kiss him, the groans Yakov had made when he was inside him. "I liked last night," said Victor. "I don't regret it. I'm glad it was you." He pushed forward for another kiss, and Yakov let him.

Afterward, Yakov let out a heavy breath and put a hand to his face again. Victor covered it with his own and leaned into it. "Does this really make you happy?"

"Don't I look happy now?" He tried to prove it with a grin. Yakov's face didn't change, but he didn't move away, either.

"You really do need to get breakfast," Yakov said after a long few moments. "I'm not just trying to kick you out."

Victor peered at the clock. Huh. Yakov had let him sleep in. "In a minute," he said, nuzzling into Yakov's palm.

"Come on. We've solved your little problem. You need to eat and I need to join everyone else in yelling at ISU."

"I knew you could fix it," said Victor, and Yakov of course saw right through the attempt at putting off getting out of bed a little longer. He managed to pull his hand away, and then he stood and went to fetch his own cup of coffee.

Victor watched him go, then reluctantly stood to gather his clothes. Yakov kept glancing at him, so he picked them up slowly. So he was still interested. Just trying to follow the rules. He was good like that.

And he was good at fixing problems. Victor wondered, as he pulled on his clothes (making sure to take the maximum possible time to put on each garment), if maybe he could help fix this weird slump he'd been in. Victor had been trying to solve it on his own, figure out why it was happening and why he couldn't just be happy with skating like he'd used to be. He hadn't thought of going to Yakov at all. It was his issue, he could solve it.

But last night had reminded him that Yakov wasn't only there to yell at him about his jumps and spins. He'd helped him before. All Victor had needed to do was ask and throw his arms around him, and Yakov had been able to fix anything. Maybe it was okay to ask about this, too. Yakov was the best coach in the world. He would know what to do.

Later, though. They could have breakfast and practice and yelling at officials first. And then Yakov would help him, and Victor could figure out how to be happy again, and maybe he could help make Yakov happier, too. A single shiver went up his spine when he remembered how Yakov had looked at him, and he wanted to see that expression again. Wanted to fulfill the desire he'd seen there.

Yakov smoothed his hair down for him when he was ready to take a few steps down the hall, even if he wasn't going to go very far before he had a chance to comb it. "Are you going to come eat with us?" Victor asked.

"Yes, yes, I'll see you at breakfast." He fidgeted with Victor's hair again, then took a half step back. Victor could feel his shoulders starting to slump at the prospect of leaving with just that, even as he kept up the smile over his coffee.

And then Yakov took a half step forward again and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"If you don't get going now, there won't be any breakfast left by the time we get down there. Hurry up."

"Okay, okay," said Victor, grinning for real this time, and he hurried out the door.

He wondered, as he changed into new clothes, if Yakov would let him sleep with him again tonight, even just _sleep_ sleeping. Thought about when would be the best time to try talking to him, what he should even say. Picked up his phone, ignored the concerned messages and fifty million emails, and smiled over new pictures of Makkachin.

Victor still didn't feel excited about the competition. But he felt better than he had yesterday.

Breakfast was chaotic. All everyone could talk about was the contamination incident. Mila and Georgi kept pestering Yakov for more information, while Yakov himself seemed to be making a list of people to have a very stern conversation with. It was a long list.

Victor didn't crave contact now, not the way he had last night. But he nudged his feet against Yakov's under the table anyway because he wanted to. Yakov glanced up at him for a moment, then went back to Mila and Georgi. His feet shifted to let Victor's in to his space, and he didn't move them away through all of breakfast.


End file.
